A Wedding in June

A wedding should be a happy time.

People get married for all kinds of reasons—tradition, love, pregnancy, money, or just to move away from their parents—but all of these have in common some kind of happiness wrapped up in them. Even if it's just the happiness of hooking up with someone new, mere novelty is a form of happiness..for a while.

People love to relate. We love to have sex. We love to feel love. And what better way to feel that special love than to throw a big party spend a bunch of money and stuff cake down the throat of the woman you've just married.

Oh and throw in some rings with lots of diamonds.

People believe the advertising hype and therefore become willing to spend six months' pay on a multi-phasic promise/engagement/wedding ring. We practically believe that if we don't spend money on diamonds, then love isn't real.

We wear white dresses even though we're not virgins.

Except I knew a girl who was a virgin on her wedding day. Her name was Morgan and I had known her her whole life. She's my cousin.

Morgan is five years younger than me. We're at that delta where we're sort of in the same generation and sort of not. The truth is I've had a crush on her since she was eight and I was 13. Nothing creepy, I mean I wouldn't have sex with her or anything, but she's got a mind I adore and she recognizes my genius..just like in small things like how I move dirty dishes around the sink or eat food on a crowded restaurant table. Both are like playing Tetris. We appreciate each other's minds.

Morgan was getting married. She found this ex-military dude who I think she just liked because of his haircut. He was a meat head, and unfortunately Morgan had been brainwashed by her parents to think that war is the way to solve all problems and their whole family bought into the whole American imperialism thing—except they didn't know what they were buying into and they would never call it that.

If you threw facts at them like America has more overseas military bases than there are countries in the world their eyes would glass over and they'd begin to drool. It was impossible for them to hear this kind of information because doing that necessitated considering that their way of life—all of our way of life—would have to change.

They had difficulty with simple math and logic problems as well. Like Morgan's father—that's my uncle Geoff—couldn't calculate a 15% tip even though he works as a consultant to the oil industry. He has a degree in chemical engineering and he needs a calculator to buy dinner.

Morgan is smarter. But Morgan hides it. There's that saying someone said about wherever a genius appears he will be assaulted by a confederacy of dunces or whatever? I don't know the exact quote but Morgan hides to avoid the assault of dunces—I watch her do it. I recognize the maneuver 'cause it's one I use myself.

Morgan has an older sister Laura. Laura is a dud. Everyone in my family is a dud except me, Laura, my sister Eliza, and my mom and that's it. The remaining crowd is wrapped up in fear, conformity..knee deep in quicksand. They're impossible to talk to. Only a handful of us, by circumstance, have peeled away from the pack and we are villainized by the family for saying things that make sense. My therapist told me once:

"Oh, did you think coming here was going to make your life easier?" (No, it's going to make your life harder. The more therapy you attend, the fewer people you'll be able to relate intimately toward, not more.)

My therapist says I'm good at a) being intimate and b) living in the moment.

But here's the thing: a lot of people don't want to have intimate relationships. Given my experience and beliefs, I want intimacy in my relationships or what's the point. But most people don't want that. That's hard for me.

So when I meet someone like Morgan I relish the opportunity. I mean we live in different cities and all we really do is text and play Words with Friends. She always beats me. I think she's cheating.

Let me tell you more about my crush on Morgan.

It started out innocent.

Then I wanted to fuck her.

Then it became an intellectual crush.

Now I'm ambivalent. I don't think—given the actual chance—that I would fuck her. But sometimes I imagine her lying on my bed in white panties. I'm tonguing her crotch. Then she gets on top of me and fucks me with her tiny little pussy and when I think about that it gets me off.

But I would never force it on her.

And even if she wanted to, I might say (I've rehearsed this): "Morgan, I would love to have sex with you, and I don't have any problem breaking the social taboo or scandalizing the family, but I'm in a relationship right now and I value simplicity and if we fucked I think it would introduce complexity and I don't want to do that at this time."

Then hopefully we would fuck anyway.

As cousins, we've been in physical proximity many times. In swimming pools. Dressed up at family reunions. Using the same bathroom at the same time to change shirts: I'm brushing my hair and Morgan ducks in in a bra and skirt and puts on deodorant.

We're safe, since we're not allowed to have sex with each other. That breeds a certain familiarity. But it comes back around and you really are a man and a woman in a bathroom half-dressed and men and women like to fuck each other, even cousins.

I slept in the same bed with my sister for a year. I lived in New York and shared her room and her futon and not once did I think: Me and my sister should have sex. That's because there's this process siblings go through—I forget the name, but—some sort of biological process by which children who grow up with each other are precluded from feeling sexual attraction toward each other. So (generally) siblings don't find each other attractive.

But cousins do.

Cousins have enough common DNA that we seem attractive to each other, and we usually don't grow up side by side, so we never go through that process which precludes attraction.

When siblings are raised apart, and meet each other as adults, they can be extremely attracted to each other.

I'm not sure my attraction to Morgan is primarily sexual.

I just like smart people.

They're kind of hard to find.

Mostly, I just like to talk to her and be around her generally.

Like with this military dude she's marrying—Evan—I don't hate him, I'm not jealous, when I think of his cock entering Morgan's pussy I don't get angry. I mean that's her business if she wants to get married to a jug head. It won't last. I give it two years tops. But that doesn't mean I don't support her—both of them. I'll go to their wedding and hug and cheer and clap and throw rice or birdseed or fennel or whatever they want us to throw at them. I hope that asshole treats her well.

And I don't mean asshole in an emotional way. I mean logically, logistically, he is an asshole. It's not a judgment. It's just a fact of life.

If my cousin wants to marry an asshole, more power to her.

Her parents hate him, which works for me because I hate her parents.

I hope he rocks her virgin pussy.

But that's unlikely.

I've met the guy and I can tell from his handshake to his lack of any sort of depth that he'd be horrible at fucking. Typical slab-head military piece of shit. About the only fucking he'd be good at is ass fucking his fellow infantrymen while deployed in whatever country we're invading today.

It would be hard to imagine him licking a clit.

Just like I bet he couldn't start a fire in the rain.

This is more of a 50-caliber machine gun type of guy.

Remember when I said there were different types of weddings? Different reasons for getting married? I bet this one between Morgan and Evan, for Morgan, is the get-away-from-home type of marriage. You know? He's a reason to get out of Dallas, to get out from under parents who question her every day about her decision to drop out of her chemical engineering program which would have put her on the same track as her dad and her sister Laura that results in middle-class money and a job track that would make an enlightened person want to kill themself within the first five years.

So Morgan and Evan get married, move to New York, and Morgan pursues a career on Broadway. Evan re-enlists and spends six months out of the year deployed while Morgan falls in love with her gay co-stars and maybe kisses a girl for the first time.

That's what I can hope for her.

Oh, and one other thing. I'm going to tell the story of her wedding with all the juicy bits included. This isn't the wedding her parents saw. Or the one my mom saw. This is the real story of what happened at Morgan's wedding.


Let me tell you about Morgan.

She was born five pounds 10 ounces with a Bic pen stuck up her vagina.

In Sunday school, she was the one asking the annoying questions like, "Why did Moses have to kill the fatted calf?"

And when she came to church she rode in on a tiny elephant.

She was willing to kiss a girl when her father and our uncle joked about shit-eating faggots.

All the children at school bowed on bended knee as she dismounted the beast.

At night she slipped a finger inside her panties and made herself cum.

She was an avid masturbator and dreamed of getting off older men in a pickup truck parked in the grass on her grandfather's property. She would slide over on top of me and lift up her skirt and rub her panty-covered ass cheeks on my cock until hot sperm shot up her back and she cleaned herself off with plaid.

Silver stockings.

Then she'd slide over into the passenger's seat and pretend to smoke a cigarette—for she was too young to smoke—and she'd exhale her lovely breath in the cab and I would breathe it in like shisha.

If I could have I would have breathed in her vagina smoke like wine.

Morgan was an A-B student who played steel drums.

She played Mozart on them.

This she did in the school marching band.

They had never seen a Mozart-playing shisha-vagina-having Morgan like Morgan before.

She was the star of the school.

Every boy wanted to smoke the crack of her vagina and pump it full of semen but Morgan was only interested in boys who could solve the Rubik's Cube with their eyes closed.

This limited her to one boy.

But Morgan wouldn't spread.

She kept Rubik at bay.

Morgan wanted to fuck Bobby Fischer.

Even though he was dead.

She wanted to necrophile him, play chess at midnight in graveyards Romanian in character and chant anti-American 9/11 slogans on Russian radio while she bounced on his rotting cock.

That sort of thing excited her.

How long could a cock remain hard once its owner was dead?

That sort of thing kept her interest.

The kinds of questions that when you ask them in school you get sent to the principal's office.

The kinds of questions that land you in therapy.

The kinds of actions that land you in jail.

But why should fucking a dead man land you in jail?

Morgan was sure he wouldn't mind.

Wasn't the pleasure of the living more important than the defilement of the dead? The dead don't care—right?

She wanted to make love to Emily Dickinson. Sneak into her room one night and rifle through the dead girl's drawers, rubbing poems on her vulva and soaking them through with her grool.

Emily wouldn't mind.

Emily was dead.

Morgan was alive.

When Morgan was 12, she covered her pussy with local honey and let ants eat her out.

Sitting in the sandbox.

They didn't bite her.

They ate her clean.

Tingling sensation.


She ate a few fingerfuls of honey-covered ants and bought a lottery ticket late that afternoon.

Morgan wasn't mathematically illiterate, though; she never checked the results. It was more of a gesture to the universe that she believed in infinite possibility. She didn't believe in winning the lottery, though; Morgan was not a dim girl.

When she was 12 1/2, Morgan woke Laura with a tongue on her Jurassic Park panties and after that Laura slept in a different room.

Morgan was lonely, not just because her sister slept elsewhere, but because even the boy who could solve the Rubik's Cube with his eyes closed did not understand her. He was a dud, too.

Morgan went deep into her mind and from her mind she has never emerged.

As a teen she smoked cloves.

She ran away to California after stealing her daddy's Range Rover. While in California she shacked up with a pot commune and danced high and naked in the boys' trailer, high on Gorilla Glue but never widening her labia to let boys cocks explore her like a worm. She slept in a tent outside and eventually returned the Range Rover to Dallas, but this was yet another trip Morgan never returned from. She began making plans after that to live on a growers' colony in Aboriginal Aus. She never went but it was the kind of thing she would do.

When she took the SAT, Morgan filled in the circles to spell out, "This test is boring," in a compressed binary format. She got the lowest grade in her class, but (she wagered) got the most satisfaction of anyone who took the test. Ever.

Her parents—my uncle Geoff and his husband Paul—tried to punish her by taking away her iPhone.

Morgan retaliated by activating a new phone at Best Buy with her father's credit card. Then she racked up $1000 worth of app purchases in the App Store.

Dumb stuff, like flight simulators and photo filters and stuff.

She broke into their Fire Stick and did some very tasteful black and white film filters of Geoff and Paul fucking each other up the butt.

She danced around the breakfast table while streaming the photos on their widescreen and she sang a song whose lyrics went, "Poop..on my butt. Poop on my butt!"

Morgan had red hair. Well, strawberry blonde.

She was lanky and her breasts never developed due to an easting disorder.

Her dads tried to teach her about her period and even invited a close female friend to the house to talk to Morgan about it, but Morgan rejected this help and learned what she needed to know off the internet.

She was proud to have a pussy, but she thought it was overzealous for people to say that the female genitals were better designed than the male ones. I mean, a) male genitals create living things that swim up a woman's vag and deliver an informational payload the size of Los Angeles (if unraveled) and b) male genitals don't bleed once a month and even though testicles look like turkey neck there are some nice cocks out there and maybe ideal female genitalia is beautiful there's a lot of ugly cunt out there.

Morgan's cunt was ideal. She knew it. Laura knew it. Everyone who ever saw it knew it. Laura felt lucky to have well-formed genitalia. Being smart was worth a lot, but having well-formed genitalia was worth even more. You have to have something to keep them coming back, and people covet you when you have well-formed genitalia.

Laura had had her pussy licked by several girls and several guys. Parties. Hookups. Upstairs bedrooms. But she never got so drunk that they were able to explore her like a worm with their worm dicks spreading her labia open and open and in in in.

She had been fingered by girls though.

That meant she was still a virgin—right?

Girls has made her cum.

Morgan thought the idea of virginity needed updating.

And she had a thing for me back, just like I had a thing for her.

If I was brushing my teeth, she would come into the bathroom and rise up between me and the sink. Then her butt would press "accidentally" into my crotch while she fished around for her hair brush, and if the door was closed she did a little dance with he butt and she'd rub it up and down like Beyoncé purposely disturbing my dick and then she'd turn on her electric toothbrush and vibrate all those little bits of food and the top layer of plaque off her teeth and as she was fucking her mouth with the bristles she would look at me in the mirror and we would never speak of it again.

I just took it as careless playfulness from a kid as we could never actually fuck due to the chromosomes and shit.

But sometimes I would grab her by the back of her pants and help her rub up and down in just the right way. And she would reach around and grab my dick through my pants and hold it on her just where she wanted it to be.

She turns around.

Grabs my dick through cargo pants.

Presses it into her. Never on the clit. Always on the hole.

Like she didn't want to pretend me stimulating her button, she wanted to put me where I would be if I was just about to fuck her and I made an exception for her in my mind.

I liked her.

So I made an exception.

You should never do that: never make exceptions for people just because you like them. You should follow the rules. Because when you make an exception for someone, it might seem like a favor at first, but ultimately you and they will realize that this means you will not only treat them unfairly when it is to their advantage, but that you'll treat them unfairly when it is their disadvantage as well.

I don't know if Morgan corrupted me or if I corrupted her.

Probably neither.

Probably we were both just corrupt and we happened to be in the same family.

Or..probably..our whole family is corrupt and we were just born into the system.

On family reunions she would ask to get changed in my room. When she was done she would leave behind her dirty panties.

As if by accident.

But it was no accident.

Sometimes when we played I would pick her up by her legs and swing her around with her hair flying out due to centrifugal force. I could smell her puss, and it smelled like salt and I thought it needed cleaning but I wanted to bury my face in it.

When she was born, her father—my uncle Geoff—looked at his husband's vagina with the baby girl Morgan coming out of it and then Geoff looked at Morgan's vagina and he said to his husband (Paul), "How did that get up there."

He removed the Bic pen from my cousin's vagina.

And Paul said, "I have no idea."

That's what I have to tell you about Morgan.


Morgan lived with her dads, at 24, basically 'cause the economy was shit.

This is what they said to her:

"You can't get married in pants."

And this is what Morgan said to them:

"Why not?"

And then these two gay dads gave Morgan a line about tradition.

"But you're not traditional. You raised me. What makes you think I'll be traditional?"

"That's different Morgan."

"No it's not. Why is it different? You think middle America is ok with you guys sucking each other's dicks and sticking your penises up each other's butts and shit?"

"Middle America has even more of a problem with young women escaping the bonds of traditional marriage attire. If you have to be edgy, why don't you wear a dress that isn't white?"

"Have you ever seen me wear a dress?"

"I don't see why you're bringing this up now. We watch Say Yes to the Dress all the time. You never seemed to have a problem with it."

"That's for other people. I don't care what they do."

"I don't see how you can watch Say Yes to the Dress and then have a problem with white dresses when it comes to you."

"Those people are stupid! I watch it because they're stupid. That's why it's entertaining!!"

"Just because you watch it ironically doesn't mean they're stupid."

"I watch it ironically and they're stupid. It's both! This is the problem with having gay republican dads: you're a walking contradiction."

"We're fiscal conservatives, Morgan—that doesn't make a walking contradiction."

"But your party leader doesn't believe in gay rights!!"

"Do we have to have this conversation at breakfast? I thought we were determining whether our über-attractive daughter was going to waste her wedding day wearing cargo pants as we walk her down the aisle."

"Only one of you is walking me down the aisle.

Geoff looked at Paul.

Paul looked at Geoff.

"Which one?"

"I ain't decided yet!"

Morgan threw down her spoon.

Paul and Geoff stopped eating.

Morgan said:

"Dresses..just contribute to female vulnerability and easy access to genitals. When you wear pants, no one can just come over to you and lift up a flap and get at your VJ. That's the whole point of dresses..is so that other people can have easy access to your genitals. With pants you are in control of your genitals. With dresses, someone else is."

"Is that just your theory or is that based on some factual historical truth?"

"It is a fact! You can determine that it is a fact just by examining the logistics of dresses and pants. No historical precedent or research is necessary."

"You can't just make stuff up and call it fact. You need to cite your sources."

"I am a source!! You don't wear dresses! You don't know!"

Morgan's gay dads went back to their breakfast.

"I just don't see what the big problem is with wearing a dress on this one day."

"A white dress."

"A white dress is for virginity, Dad! I'm not wearing a white dress!!"

"Ok, ok, my ears are burning. Do we have to cuss at mealtime?"

"Fuck fuck fuck. How's that. Fuck a white dress. Fuck your fucking ass. Fuck your ass. And fuck your asses together."

"Mmm. Sounds like fun. Is our daughter getting her ass fucked too?"

"Also, a white dress isn't necessarily a symbol of virginity."

"Yes it is."

"It's a symbol of new starts."

"No it's a symbol of virginity."

"No, it's a—"

"Dads, let me ask you something. When you're butt fucking, do you use a condom?"

"I still don't see what's wrong with wearing a white dress just for one day."

"Morgan, wear a regular wedding dress. Please."

"You're not evening listening to me. There's a dictum, you know, that people like to have someone to listen to their life. Have you ever heard that?"

"A white wedding dress will make people comfortable. It tells them that they're at a wedding. If you wear cargo pants or some sort of Asian-looking tube dress people won't know what kind of ceremony they're at. It will confuse them."

"Also, Morgan, what is with this military dude you're marrying—Evan?"

"What is with him?"

"Why don't you find a history professor or a PhD student—someone who can match you intellectually?"

"Evan has a stable income and he fucks good."

"Morgan, please, it's obvious you're still a virgin."

"I'm 24. How could I possibly be a virgin?"

"We know you're a virgin because no one has ever been good enough for you."

"For me to—"

"To give it up."

"So crude. So what. He eats good pussy and he fingers like a champion. I'm not ready to have a guy stick his dick inside me. I think it's gross. Anyway, isn't it traditional to stay a virgin till you get married?"

"If you don't wear a white dress, people will think you're not a virgin. If you wear cargo pants they'll think you're a dyke."

"Or bisexual."

"So what if I am bisexual. Or a dyke. I mean fuck it, I'm not asking for the approval of everyone I invite to the wedding."

"Isn't that exactly what you're asking for?"

"No, I'm asking them to celebrate with me. To share my joy."

"But joy in what? Your open bisexual relationship with military Evan?"

"To share in whatever my joy may be."

"Does Evan share your nontraditional values?"

"Evan is my age. So to you his values are nontraditional, yes. I asked you a second ago if you use condoms when you suck the shit off each other's dicks and I never got an answer."

"See the thing is, Morgan, if you don't wear a white dress, when people look at the wedding pictures—wait, what is Evan wearing? Is it gonna be him in a tux and you in baggy pants? How is that gonna look?"

"Evan's gonna wear his BDUs."

"Desert camo? Forest? Ice?"


"Digital or classic?"

"Digital..Dad!! Shouldn't you be more concerned with whether he's going to make a good husband?"

"I think we all pretty much assume that's not the case."


"He's not worth you, Morgan. You need someone smart."

"Why? It's not a math team, it's a marriage! What the fuck difference does it make if he's smart?"

"When the sex wears off, Morgana, you're going to be stuck with this person year after year and you're going to want someone you can talk to."

"Talking's overrated. If he can laugh at Parks and Rec that's good enough for me."

"Honestly, Mor, that's low-grade humor."

"It's kind of hard to believe you like that show."

"Not everything has to be high-class humor, you know."

"Yeah but Parks and Rec?"

"He's right, Morgan, there's nothing funny about that show."

"Thanks, humor police."

"I don't believe my daughter is getting married and both her and her husband are going to be wearing cargo pants."

"You'll look like a couple of lesbians. Have you at least scoped out Evan's dick?"

"Have I scoped it?"

"You don't want to be with a man with a weak dick."

"Dick strength is very important."

"I'm not having this conversation!" Morgan said, and plugged her ears.

In time, she went back to eating her Cheerios.

Her Dads were eating Fruit Loops.

Eventually one of them said, "Still, if I was a straight man, I wouldn't want my wife wearing cargo pants on our wedding night. Are you at least going to wear cute underwear?"

With her mouth full: "I'm not telling you what kind of underwear I'm wearing on my wedding night."

"Morgan, I'm going to tell you something. The first time you have sex, there has to be an element of rape."

Morgan almost chokes.

"I don't want there to be an element of rape!"

But her other dad piped in: "He's right, Mor. There's an element of control..especially if he's done it and you haven't. Is Evan experienced?"

"The conversation is over."

"How 'bout a Say Yes to the Dress marathon later? We'll open a bottle of wine."

"Watching Say Yes to the Dress with you two is the last thing I want to do right now."

"If you reconsider..we'll be licking chunks of shit off each other's dicks and you can just knock.."

"..Or just come in, Mor, you're more than welcome in our bedroom. No hetero."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

"Which part?"

"The whole part!"

"Are you embarrassed about your shit-licking cock-sucking ass-fucking dads?"

They both laugh.

"It's everything else about you that I despise," Morgan says.

"Guess what we're having for dinner?" Geoff says.

"I'm not falling for this."

"Shit brownies!!"

Both her dads laugh.

"Rethink the dress thing, Morgan. No thick-neck corn-fag military motherfucker is going to want to take his wife's virginity in a pair of cargo pants. You've got to dress it up for guys like that."

"Dress what up? My pussy?"

"Your glorious little puss, daughter of mine. Straight men don't actually like pussy."

"What do they like?"

"White wedding dresses, lace, silk, girl panties and stuff like that."

"You don't know Evan."

"And you might want to reconsider your groom!!"

They both laugh.

Morgan stands in the entrance to the kitchen with one hand on each wall. She is considering grabbing a serrated knife and cutting her own head off. She imagines the blade cutting through her veins and the determination it would take to apply that much pressure to your own neck that you could kill yourself right in front of your two gay republican dads.


In fact Morgan thought of suicide a lot.

She wasn't sure if she was genuinely, truly suicidal or just cry for help suicidal. Probably cry for help. But there was always the chance that a cry for help one would turn into a genuine one. It's a slippery slope, you know.

Morgan thought a lot about the auto-erotic asphyxiators. It seemed like the way to go: blasted out of life on a killer orgasm, found hanging from the mini blind strings by your mother or father or brother or sister or something.

But Morgan was fond of chemical activities that can kill you anyway so she figured that in her case actually suiciding was a moot point. She was going to die anyway (we all were) so what was the point of actually killing yourself? For Morgan, being suicidal was less about a plan and more a way of life.

It was an attitude.

And, ironically, it resulted in her embracing life more than most.

She lived in the moment—even if it was a deadly moment.

Morgan didn't have a job.

Morgan wore Chuck Taylors.

That bitch would probably be wearing Chuck Taylors when she died.

She wore them to prom.

I was seven years older than her but she got me to drive her and she snuck me in so I got to dance with her.

Talk about sick pedo opera.

She had a dress of rags, dreadlocks, Chuck Taylors, and we exaggerated the classic one-hand-up hand holding of a couples dance from decades earlier, clomping around the gym, me in combat boots, and it was the most romantic dance of the night, stomping out all those timid band-kid flirtations that would start and end on the dance floor that event.

Morgan and I ate Twizzlers together, and Sour Patch Kids—a relationship built to last. We were the only two people in the theater when The Crow came out—we saw that movie in a special screening where the population of Texas had weeded itself out from seeing one of the greatest movies ever made. As photo freaks, we left bodily fluids on the floor at the cinemo—if you haven't seen The Crow then you have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about.

When I heard that Morgan was getting married I cried. I went to my room and cried. It was a tragedy worse than 9/11 (which hadn't happened yet)—an event of much more magnitude: Morgan marrying some thick-fag corn-dick military motherfucker. It was a blow to our whole philosophy growing up—we hated the ROTC faggots and made fun of them running their "color guard" around the student parking lot. Color guard sounds like a kind of bleach. Really it's just a bunch of overweight freshman with no social skills who have found that carrying nationalist flags on their shoulders was the one way they could have some semblance of a social group. We all looked down on them.

And then Morgan falls in love with one of them.

Morgan—the coolest one of us—just turned the tide completely and decided to get married to the goddamn motherfucking enemy. Fuck her.

No, I mean it. Fuck her. It would have been better if she had gone lesbian and gone out with the prom queen or something. That would have been weird—because we hated the super-popular kids with the passion of a blood feud—but it would be more palatable than her dating—marrying—some guy whose greatest aspiration in life was to go fight an unjust war—pick one—started by the United States in its thinly veiled imperialistic mission. I wanted to question Morgan but I respected her too much.

She had her fucking reasons.

And she was a broader person than me.

So her reasons had to be good. They had to be.

Still, when I saw her on the farm, I was gonna have to pull that fiend aside and ask her—subtly—what the fuck she was thinking.



"What the fuck are you thinking?"

This is where Morgan would lap me with her intellect.

"Look, Matthew, don't get that big head of yours turning. Know what marriage is? Doing laundry. Maintaining a house. Finances. Kids maybe. Sex. Going out to dinner. Going to plays."

"Does Evan go to plays?"

"Just because a motherfucker knows how to shoot an M16 doesn't mean a mother can't appreciate the theatre."

"I got no problem with guns."

"Yes you do. You do. You're completely anti-military."

"I'm not anti-military. I'm anti-war."

Morgan would laugh at me here.

"You ever try just disagreeing with someone? Instead of being diplomatic?"

"I don't know."

"Well try it sometime. It's freeing. When you're younger you try to please everyone. Then you start to know that whether you like lemons or dislike lemons is part of who you are. I know you like cheese. You have to stand for something."

"I do like cheese."

"And that's part of your identity. So be anti-war or anti-military or whatever. It's ok for us to disagree."

"Well is he good at sexing?"

"I haven't fucked him."

"Have you fucked anyone?"

"None of your damn business."

"I'm just trying to think, if you had, who would it be."

Morgan shakes her head.

"Yeah, you would know, you would know. I haven't, ok? And you had your chance and you chickened out."

"I wasn't ready. I was in the tenth grade. Girls mature faster than boys in that department."

"Too bad for you."

"Yeah, too bad for both of us."

"You know," Morgan says, "in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter whether you and I fucked at all."

That's how I imagined the talk between me and Morgan going, when I pulled her aside at the wedding, which I was definitely going to do.

I longed for Morgan's red hair.

And it's crazy when your seven-years-younger cousin can run laps around you conversationally. You love it. But you hate it. But mostly you love it.

After prom she slid over in the seat and lodged herself between my cock and the steering wheel and rubbed her pantied ass against me like she did when she was 12 but now she was 17 and I wasn't sure which one was more dangerous.

I precame on her white panties. She had one hand down her front and one hand bracing herself on the steering wheel.

"Thanks for driving me to prom."

"Of course, Morgan."

Then she fucked me with her ass cheeks and kept going and going in the student parking lot of her high school until I was up her panties between her skin and she rubbed her pussy like a guy jerking his dick—just as fast—and we came together, both hunched over the steering wheel and my cum shot up on her all over her panties and her stomach lodging in her belly button and when I pulled my cock back between her butt cheeks I came again, shooting hot up her back and she shivered, touching my cum with her fingers, turning around in my lap, and rubbing it on my lips.

This is the kind of thing you never tell your parents.

Or your cousins, brothers and sisters.

But everyone figures it out anyway.

They don't know the specifics, but they know the gist.

Morgan and I, staying at GranGran's house. Everyone heard Morgan leave her borrowed bedroom—the one my mom used to stay in when she was a kid—and when she came back from the bathroom she didn't go back to her room..she came to the living room where I was sleeping on the couch and spooned me, her reaching back and getting me off and me reaching front and getting her off.

Never fucking, but always getting each other off.

We practiced on each other—that's what we told each other.

Like we weren't having a real relationship, we were just allies practicing jacking and jilling and oral and panty jobs so we would be really good for our real loves. Except we never had any real loves—it was always just us.

I think we knew if we fucked we would be out of control.

And if we didn't actually fuck, we could pretend it was ok.

We convinced ourselves that everything else was innocent—if we didn't fuck, it was all fun and games. We discounted it.

But she rubbed my cum into her stomach and I smelled her cunt on my hands all night after she had left and gone back to my mom's old bedroom, and I jerked off two or three times after she had left, smelling her juices on my hands and making myself cum with thoughts of Morgan sitting on top of my cock, hot little pussy hugging me tight and getting me off in seconds.

I thought about going into her room and mock-taking advantage of her, pushing us over the edge—which I'm sure she wouldn't mind—but I never did (out of some weird shred of dignity that said as long as we held out on the ultimate act that everything else we did was ok).

And maybe it was. We didn't violate the evolutionary taboo of having kids with your family. The real pain of the thing—aside from whatever embarrassment our relatives felt—was that we couldn't be together forever. We weren't about to put our cards on the table and live together or anything. And we had to grow up, and go out with different people, and our play had to stop eventually, and since we weren't officially doing anything, our breakup was silent, under cover, just between us, not something we could share with our families or confide about with our friends. It was just kind of this process by which she developed boyfriends and I had girlfriends all along, and we just stopped doing stuff.


When I think about Morgan I touch myself.

She is rocking above me, pre-dreads, rubbing her gusset on my hard cock in that moment right before you fuck someone when you know it's going to happen but you're still separated by that last layer of fabric.

Morgan lying back on my sheet-less mattress and I pry her legs apart and she finally gives in, knowing we're finally going to fuck, my cock inside her all the way up to her belly button.

Up to her womb.

Little girl, little cousin.

Running her hands between her legs and me following their path until her clothes are damp with girl juice and it's just that right part in her period where she's slippery mucous and impregnable, where I'll be most apt to cum inside her and when we have to be most careful about it.

Morgan is not the kind of girl who would ever use a condom.

And I'm not the kind of guy who ever would.

Too pedestrian.

If I can't feel my little cousin's serrated vag with my barbed cock, that head ridge exactly designed to touch her spot, to rub her to orgasm as soon as I stick it in..then what's the point.

Imagine her sitting on top of me, milking pre-cum out of my cock and then us both pulling down her panties and her raising above me enough to get me inside her and she pushes down and fucks us both to oblivion with hot tight wet la la la la la la pussy of a cousin is the prime kind, genetics close enough that our genitals are super compatible, of a kind, family.

Wet pussy with three fingers inside it—as many as I can get—and Morgan's cheeks blushing as she lies back on my pillows with no pillowcases on them, forcing herself to make eye contact with her older cousin who is finally going all the way with her pink little body.



Fucking a pussy so tight it grips me and its walls slide out a little when I pull out, pussy so tight I have to stop myself from cumming, pause fucking here and there so I don't squirt the little bitch 10 seconds in—and she has a pussy that would make me cum right away—if I wasn't careful.

Gripping her head with my hands, my taller body above her head, smelling her dreads, holding her in place so I can bone fuck her hard as any brute fucks his girl, and every poke makes her wetter and wetter until I can hardly cum but she's like jelly and that's when Morgan really starts to moan.

When I think about Morgan I touch myself.

She gets me off in 30 seconds flat.

Imagining my cousin undressing in front of me, getting me off in the pickup truck, letting me slip inside her panties and boning the fuck out of that little girl.

And me rocking above her, holding her head, and never stopping fucking her until she cums rushing hot around me and fingernails on my back.

Then I blush, when I cum in my cousin, knowing it's something I shouldn't do.

Her pussy is definitely off-limits, and that makes it so fuckingly blushingly hot.

Squeezing off my shot of cum, contracting inside her, and her taking my cum swimming up her vag as she lies back paralyzed by pleasure.

Think of it: all that pleasure we both feel is there to keep us in position doing something we otherwise would never do. Keep me cumming inside her, keep her lying back and letting my semen swim up her vagina to make a baby, which is what biology wants us to do.

And we fall for it every time.

All the icons and aesthetics of femininity and masculinity that excite us so, are just there to trick us into making babies.

And they make it so that people who otherwise don't want to have babies have them anyway.

Even now, the aesthetics of fucking Morgan make it so I could endure the family and societal damnation that would occur if Morgan had my baby. But we know one thing: it would be attractive as hell and a goddamn motherfucking genius. If I had a baby with Morgan, it would take over the world. And just one generation of inbreeding wouldn't have too much of a negative effect. We'd have to teach it not to have sex with its cousins, though. She'd probably be a chess master or the next Eckhart Tolle or something.

I want to jump on top of Morgan and give it to her nice and slow. Fuck her like the rhythm of a train, back and forth, back and forth, and adult rocking another adult not to sleep but to orgasm, just slow and steady her until she begs me with her eyes to keep going, never stop until she cums all over my cock and my mattress and we have the intimacy of fluids. (That came out of you? This goes into you? You taste like this? It is one of the ultimate physical intimacies.)

The smell of Morgan on my cock the next day.

I had already smelled her on my fingers.

I wanted to see her face the moment I pushed it in.

The first time she ever had sex.

The first time she ever had sex with me.

I had made her cum with my fingers and I wanted her to cum the first time she ever had sex. That was my goal with her: to start out her intercourse career with a bang. Licking her nipples tonguing her ear and thumbing her clit with one hand while I grabbed her ass with the other making her feel loved and cradled and safe and hot and warm and ready to let her insides go and feel that height of height on her cousin's cock..fuck that's what I wanted.

I wanted her face flush.

A single tear for her first pussy orgasm with someone else.

And knowing she had that same feeling of wrongness I had.

And that's part of what got her off.

Her dreadlocks pushed the limits with her dads, her tats pushed the limits even further. Her smoking cloves. The drugs they suspected she did. But fucking your cousin..even two gay republican dads weren't having anything to do with that.

Not that they had any choice.

Morgan sent me her panties in the mail.

We'd text about it.

Make them as dirty as possible.

Morgan would pee in them, cum in them, wipe her vulva with them after she masturbated.

By the time they got to me, the smell alone got me hard.

I jerked off with them, added my cum to the mix, imagined Morgan's pussy cupping my dick, it being so small that I found the end of it with the tip of my cock.

When I thought about her wedding, when I thought about Evan, I thought of what a waste her first time would be, what a sad life her pussy had ahead of it with some military dude who didn't know how to fuck, and Morgan's sexual life would plateau, then taper off into pathetic oblivion, she'd have kids, ruin her vagina, ruin her mental health, be trapped in American familydom.

I imagined Evan on top of her, not even making eye contact, thinking of nothing but himself, just jerking off with that smart girl's pussy, basically, she wouldn't even be involved.

She'd have to make herself cum when he was deployed just to get any satisfaction, watching femme-friendly porn on the internet. Other girls masturbating, stuff like that. Maybe hold a secret stash of vibrators somewhere in the house—I hoped she would.

It wasn't just the sexual languishing of Morgan that I minded. It was the mental languishing, the intellectual languishing. I had talked to Evan and he was about as smart as a fireplace log.

I wondered how much our relationship had affected her choice. How much Morgan needed to escape me, as much as she needed to escape her parents.

I mean we couldn't continue on.

And maybe the normalcy of marrying a stable guy, with a stable income, even if he was as dumb as rocks, was just the ticket.

Normal sex, nothing controversial about marrying a soldier. Not in this society. Her whole life would be supporting the troops.

I gave a lot of thought to what to get them for a wedding present. I wandered the mall looking in every store. Sheets: too personal, to much related to the sex life. A blender: too domestic, too much of a statement of: you're going to be spending your life in the kitchen! I almost got them some sex dice at Spencer's. Of course I didn't. But everything I picked out, no matter how bland, related someway to their sex life, or me and Morgan's sex life. To me Morgan was sex sex sex. I was afraid even a Joyce Chen cleaver would give me away somehow, reveal my true feelings—something to kill Evan with, perhaps.

Their registry was impossible for me. I ended up getting them a wine rack and some started bottles—wines I liked, and I knew Morgan liked reds. Evan didn't drink. So I guess I gave myself away even with that gift but the fact was I didn't give a fuck about Evan and ultimately I didn't care who—friends, family, foe—knew about it. Morgan was my cousin. It was my job to make her happy, with a wine rack, starter bottles, a phone call, or three fingers up her pussy—I didn't give a fuck. Everyone knew I didn't like Evan—I let him know when we spoke. To give a gift that only Morgan would enjoy fit right with everyone's expectations anyway—and, sure, I lived right up to them.


The wedding.

Dallas, Texas.

The farm.

Well, really, a ranch.

Horses, cattle, snakes.

We grew everything.

Or Morgan's parents did.

Well, their slaves did.

Morgan's parents had probably never touched a cow.

They just owned cows.

There's a difference.

Oh no wait—first things first. How Morgan met Evan (from Morgan's point of view):

I was in my dorm room in Texas A&M (this is Morgan) and there was a knock at the door.

Some thick-neck corn-fag military motherfucker. Looking hot in his uniform.

He said: I need someplace to sleep, my dorm room is too loud. People playing Mortal Kombat and screaming Fuck!! at the top of their lungs and throwing controllers to the ground.

So I (Morgan) opened my door to this boy and let him in. I set him up with a place on the bed and covered him with quilts.

Then he shape-shifted into a puppy.

Instead of a military boy lying in my bed the occupant was a calico chihuahua, cute as can be, all curled up and absolutely adorable to a girl's heart. If he had borne sushi on his short-haired body I would have been in absolute heaven but I could see the fur-covered penis of this dog and he was harmless, I was in control, and I babied him like I could never baby a military dude.

I rubbed behind his ears. I was 20 times larger than him so he could never rape me. The ideal boy (dog).

And we had many afternoons together, my pup and I, walking the dorm halls and impressing my fellow chemical engineering students with him.

They wanted to sleep with him, for their first times to be with a cute puppy and a small cock, but I kept him on a short leash and let him be not corrupted by the chemical bitches in Lyndon B. Johnson hall.

Then he shape-shifted again and I was left with a large boy on a small leash with lots of 'splainin' to do.

"Why did you turn me into a dog?"

"You turned yourself into a dog! You're the shape-shifter!"

"I loved you as a dog, when you wrapped me in quilts and took care of my shit. It was lovely, lovely, not like anything in the military."

"They don't take care of your shit there?"

"Not hardly."

"Do they even have quilts?"

"No ma'am."

"If you shape-shift back into a dog I will clean your shit forever. You can even shit in my bed."

So he shape-shifted back into a calico chihuahua and shit all over my quilts and I loved him even more for being out of control of his excrement, such a baby, such need, and I filled in his holes.

I developed a love for his puppy excrement.

Even its smell.

It was part of him, and I loved all of him, so I loved that part of him, too.

I am Morgan. This is my point of view.

My point of view is that the shape-shifting dog deserved my love.

And when he shape-shifted back I was able to fuck his cock, less hairy than the dog cock, and make myself cum on his knob.

He felt glorious inside me, and my pussy juices rejoiced.

He pretended he was asleep.

He shit on the bed.

I knelt in his shit, fucked him like an animal.

Came on his fucking knob.

And his hot cock shot cum into my puss at 90 miles per hour.

Then he shape-shifted back into a puppy.

I loved my little puppy—took him everywhere. To class, in my bag, with a small air hole so he could breathe while I did chemistry. I fed him magnesium fumes to get him high so he wouldn't be bored. In puppy form he was harmless.

Then he was my baby and I was pushing him out through my vag, wet and slippery with film covering his eyes, cutest little puppy there I had ever birthed. And when he slipped all the way out I cut the cord with a pair of sewing scissors and held him to my breast where he sucked at my nipple and lapped and kissed and I felt him drinking milk, sensation all the way down to my vag—it tickled. Smart smart nature make me tickle when puppy who is my future husband suckles at my nips. Sexy little baby I want to stick you back up my vagina and rub your head against my serrated parts—make me cum with my puppy baby sleek.

This is my man—just a puppy baby going puppysickle arf! Puppysickle bounding the beach, paws in sand came out of my vag grows up to roam the world shape shift into a human boy military grade who will someday suck my puss when I allow flowage in the opposite direction, puppy going back inside my with his furry pup cock.

Puppysickle bounding the waves.

Take you for a day trip where puppies aren't allowed.

You're the smallest dog I've ever imagined.

Name of Meatball.

Come here little Meatball—let me eat you till you cum.

Meatball precum on doggy dick lick your tip until you drip on my tongue.

Then suck you so hard you gush.

Set me on fire.

You're between my legs—in and out—setting my heart on fire.

I let tiny doggy lick my pussy then fuck me with his tiny Meatball cock.

Love your cock.

Want to marry you, little pup, little military dog, we need a room to ourselves outside of prying eyes so we can do anything we want, as if we were the last two people on Earth, I would fuck you any way we wanted, shove you in and out of me you sexy motherfucker shakin' that ass. Sexy motherfucker shakin' that assshakin' that ass. Nothing like a sweet puppy wettens my pussy lips like a small puppy small paws little wet nose and I let you sniff me and find me out like Tanqueray. Little Amy Meatball, let me call you by your girl name for my dog is both male and female, I love her like a girl fuck her like a boy that is how I do my dog-friend.

Sleep with me at night harmless puppy put your nose in my armpit and smell my girl juices while you sleep nestled between my legs and smell my girl juice while you sleep lick my ears turn my legs into spaghetti when I wake up make me unable to walk sexy puppy sex pup just you and I in a bed that's how I see me losing my virgin to a canine Meatball kitty-dog. Sweet as a kitty with the instinct of a dog let auto-replace write your book! I auto-replace a human military man with a dog named Meatball. Tiny dog. Loves to lick me and mount me and fuck me with doggy cock, dog I gave birth to turning right around and fucking his exact home, the womb he came from now his pleasure and makes my QuiverPussy® cum like a house on fire.

My pussy cums with a heart on fire!

My pussy cums with a heart of flame.

Like a flamethrower when I cum in your licking face.

Lick me until I shoot wet flames in your face.

Puppy knows how to lick his momma better than any man.

Military man. Regular man. Any man.

I will finger myself kneeling above your face at night, military man, cum in your face and show your how it's done I know he will be a bad fucker—deficient fucker—by the way he talks, by the way he kisses, by the way he doesn't finger me when we make out by the way he ignores my breasts and pulls my hand on top of his cock and unzips and tells me when he's about to cum and I'm washing my hands with Ivory—the pump kind—and I wonder if cum floats like Ivory fuck myself fuck myself fuck myself what have I gotten myself into I will wear the dress I will wear the dress I will wear the dress to make my dads happy I will make my dads happy I will make them happy.

We have to deal with the cousin situation—the Matthew situation. He will be at the wedding and we have to give him something like a thumb ring to let him know that we love him and always will even though he sent back all my love notes in a cardboard tube with no explanation. Idiot. They say women are more sexually mature than boys and that is certainly the truth in this case. Do you know how much that hurt me, Matthew? Do you know that you could have had me if you hadn't been off chasing that Walker girl who would never have you? Isn't that the way of it. Two people like each other but never at the same time and I couldn't wait. I had to move with my future, idiot man, so fuck your anti-military prejudices this man will take good care of me and even if he dies I will be taken care of for the rest of my life and that's more I can say for you. Did you ever think you're too psychopathic to take care of me besides I can't marry my cousin.

But we could have been together. All you had to do was say, Morgan, let's get out of Texas, live on a ranch in Montana and you can have everything you want from me but I don't think you ever really wanted it you were too scared you had the right ideas but maybe your morals are narrower than mine and you could never actually fuck your cousin, take your cousin to be yours, take me.


The wedding party.

Arrives, Mock Turtle leading the procession.



Sweeping rain pelting the coats of all under a clear sky.

Tornados visible on the horizon.

Plano, Texas.

And an infinite ballroom, checkered marble floor squares a meter wide, black and white with swirls in each polished stone.

Eight full bathrooms off the side of the hall, for water is the metaphor of grief and what is a wedding if not grief—grief seeming of all those not getting married but no—grief for the future husband and wife, this their last fantasy before entering a period of crumble and ruin, undoubtable, inevitable, unstoppable decline. So grief for the couple, and grief for all their friends, those who must watch them in one final lie..that everything will be bright and white and filled with hope. When nothing could be farther from true.

The Mock Turtle, followed by the Lizard with a Ladder, followed by the Mad Hatter, followed by Alice herself, dressed in lace so purple it appears black, her own veil so the party will not see her weeping for Morgan and Evan, the saddest people in the room. Alice is a measure of the event, a barometer of blood pressure, a vital sign showing what is healthy, what is healed, and what is dying in this very room.

Her toenails want cutting. Her hair wants cutting. She hasn't washed in years, since she saw into the future that these two were getting married and it was a tragedy all through Narnia.

Bells broke the day it was announced, cracked right though their sides, never to ring in tune again.

And after Alice, a small worm, inching through the mud, shaking off his shoes once he entered the ballroom, dripping on the parquet floor, and so short that the humans didn't even see him.

Inside the hall it rained, too, drips turning mascara into streams down faces and dripping from the roof into the wedding cake, running it into puddles, pouring into the wine glasses, filling them with dusty water, pooling on the floor making obstacles for everyone who wanted to walk.

Women whose hair was made up in buns came out in wisps and fell on their necks, in their faces, and they began to cry in concert with the rain, knowing they had come not to a celebration but a lamentation, that people would die here today, symbolically having life taken from them, not life given to.

And men offered up their newspapers to lay on women's seats, some ancient gesture of chivalry, women situating their butts on the paper which was soaked through with water from the chairs.

And in those tornadoes, lightning threatened to light up the whole place, shocking everyone to death.

Alice, the Mock Turtle, worm, and her crew went straight to the front row and Alice wept for the world.

Morgan's dad Geoff got up and announced that the wedding would begin shortly but encouraged guests to use the towels in side bathrooms to dry themselves, even though..

"..rain is the color of grief. It is the symbol of grieving especially among siblings—the truest kind of love."

And he went on to introduce Morgan's older sister, Laura, and talk about the love they had shared since childhood..

"..from playing mud puddle in the back yard to riding on Little Tykes® to drawing on the underside of the dining room chairs with White-Out® which took me and Paul hours to scrape off and which never came completely clean."

Hahaha. (Laughter from the deadbeat crowd.)

"We scraped and scraped and finally resolved that those chairs were ruined forever. But we kept them for the girls to use while sitting at their easels—which Paul and I built, using our rudimentary carpentry skills."

(More laughter—so funny that two white-collar oil-industry consultants would get their hands dirty with the blue-collar activity of building an easel when they clearly had enough money to just buy them or pay someone else to build them.)

So, so funny that Geoff and Paul would do manual labor. Everyone in the crowd understood this. As dirty as they got their hands was flipping through regulatory documents which they would explain to oil companies so the oil companies could operate in the most destructive way possible that was still technically within the law. Hahaha. What a funny thing to do for work. Hilarious. So so funny to destroy the world without ever getting your hands dirty.

And Geoff continued to laugh, and laugh, and regale the crowd with tales from the regulatory industry from underneath his black umbrella, shoes inch-deep in pooling water.

Morgan was in one of the bathrooms.

Her white dress was gray with the dirty water.

She had lines of cocaine set out on the edge of the sink, trying to cut them off her metal vial (which was meant as a pill holder) before the drips from the ceiling ruined her lines.

She used a third of a straw which she had cut up.

She snorted lines and held her feet heels up, tips of her toes pointed downward into the gathering pools.

She had seen Alice and the worm and everyone in between arrive as a party and especially since they weren't invited, she knew that Alice's presence in black veil was a terrible omen.

If Alice had shown up in her blue and white pinafore, this would be a day for celebration.

But no.

Black Alice was here, and Morgan knew it meant this was the end of her life, grief falling from the ceiling with every drop.

This was the beginning of pain.

She would walk herself down the aisle. She was through with her family. Her family had done things like told her she wasn't to sit on the living room couch—while her sister was—without any explanation except that it irked her dads to see her sitting on the couch. And Morgan had lived with this restriction for years, everyone else in the family—and guests—able to sit on the couch, while Morgan had to find someplace else to sit..which meant when everyone else had taken up the chairs and the couch was empty, Morgan had to sit in the kitchen while they all watched a movie "together"—but there was nothing together about Morgan's family.

One of Morgan's dads' workmates called her an asshole when she changed the cable channel while he was outside smoking. When he came in he looked at Morgan and said, "Asshole," and when Morgan complained, her dads sided with their workmate, who weaseled out of the situation by saying he was calling Geoff an asshole and that it was just the way they played but that wasn't how it happened at all.

Her dads gave her money but wouldn't pick up her phone calls.

Morgan did another line.

Her dads paid for school but wouldn't come to see her plays.

Morgan did another line.

Her dads bought her a car but would never come with her to play soccer in the park.

Morgan did another line.

She wanted to kill herself by accidental overdose, if you can grasp that contradiction. Make it look like a drug problem, not a suicide problem, have a heart attack in bathroom number eight, the ceiling raining like a shower. Find her lying on the floor with her face in a puddle, brown wedding dress stained with dirt and grit and grout, lines of coke washing away on the counter, unusable.

And Alice would find her, lift her own black veil and bend to kiss the never-married girl, dip her finger in the damp coke piles and rub the substance on her gums, then check Morgan's pulse at her wrist and declare her dead, acting as priest and doctor.

And that would be the end of the wedding. Evan and Morgan's dads would go out for beer and sit in a bar in north Texas and reminisce. How great Morgan was. Troubled but brilliant. Beautiful physically. A shame that she died a virgin. Evan would have his eye on the waitress, thinking that any woman who made a Reuben like the one she brought him would make a good mate.

And an ambulance would park outside of the hall.

And bring in a stretcher.

And water from the ceiling would drip black on the white sheets of the moveable bed.

And techs would lift Morgan's body from the tile floor and un-crumple her and lay her on the stretcher and carry the girl through the remnants of the wedding party scattered through the hall.

And they would take her away and guests would stay until all the champagne was drunk, wedding turned funeral, Morgan forgotten, put in a frozen box in the morgue—that's how Morgan saw it anyway, as she did line after line after line of coke in bathroom number eight. That's how she saw her own wedding, dripped on with black rain, a moment of grief instead of joy. A moment of death instead of life.

She saw her pussy going to waste, unused, never given the pleasure which potential it contained. She would never be loved—not in that way—and she saw it as part of the colossal waste of her life. An education gone to waste. A mind unused. A body unenjoyed. That's how Morgan saw herself.

Or that's how I saw that Morgan saw herself, for this whole vision of Morgan's wedding as grief was not Morgan's at all—not the vision she had of herself—but the vision I had of her having a vision of herself.

The grief was mine—black rain.

The death was mine—a girl who would never be with me in the way we both wanted.

The impressions—Alice, the parquet floor, the eight bathrooms, Morgan suicidal on coke—were all mine.


Geoff and Paul in the main hall.

Crowd of people around them.

Circle of listeners.

Regalia of stories.

War tales from the oil fields.

Consultant masters. Of the universe.

Tales of killing the planet from behind a desk.

Traveling the globe with an old-fashioned briefcase.

Click. Click. Open the case.

Out comes the contract.

Stroke of a pen. Planet destroyed.

Ha ha ha ha ha. Geoff and Paul laughing.

Their daughters will have cars for their college graduation.

The best schools.

Morgan is one of these. Laura is the other.

They will never lack. Only the best.

"We got Morgan a G6 for her graduation but she refuses to drive it!"

"What an idealist!"

Geoff nudges his daughter in her wedding dress and whispers in her ear: "Aren't you glad you didn't go with the cargo!" :while he smiles to the crowd.

Morgan frees herself from his grip.

"A G6!" Paul's sister—my mother—whispers.

A G6—the flyest dohpest machination of an automobile since Ford made Model Ts. Who wouldn't want one??!!

"Our little idealist," Paul said.

"People would kill for a G6," Geoff said.

And Morgan said, "That's exactly the point. We drive cars that 90% of the world kill to have when we should be building trains to connect pedestrian centers."

"What do trains have to do with anything?"

"That you don't understand..is why I will never drop as foot on the accelerator of that fucker."

"Morgan, please."

Morgan lifts up her dress to scratch her leg. It reveals a giant tat of the Chili's pepper riding a unicycle.

"Uh, that's nice," Paul says.

Geoff says, "We couldn't stop her."

My mom says, "That's going to look horrible when you're old."

"What makes you think any of us are gonna be old? You think a tattoo is an irresponsible decision. Having kids is far less responsible, but no one chides you for them. Or aiding BP. You all are so happy that my dads bought me a G6. You know that's blood money, right?"


"What, dad? Every drop of money we have comes from planetary destruction. Convince me that it's not."

"We paid for your wedding. We paid for that dress."

"I would rather get married in the woods and wear seaweed, no caterer, no drinks, and none of you fucking people."

Geoff explodes in nervous laughter.

"What's your tattoo of?" I ask, knowing full well what it's of.

"Well," says Morgan, "since you ask, it's a picture of the Chili's pepper riding a unicycle."

She smiles at me.

"And what is the significance?"

"There is none."

The eyes of everyone else in the crowd go glassy—this type of direct conversation is out of their reach. Unless they're talking about money or politics (or football) they have no way to understand the speech being thrown.

"Morgan, I'd love to see you get married in seaweed."

This makes everyone uncomfortable.

"I will rearrange my entire wedding just for you."

This makes everyone very uncomfortable. They know of me and Morgan's sub-fucking bedroom adventures and naturally the family is mortified.

"Where is Evan?" Paul says.

"You can't say it like that," Morgan says.

"What can't I say?"

"You put the emphasis on is. That indicates that we were talking about Evan. Which we weren't."

"So what?"

"So it's a lie."

"It's a question, how can it be a lie?"

"It insinuates a lie," Morgan says.

"Why do I feel like I'm in a courtroom every time I talk to you?"

"Maybe because you've committed conversational crimes."

"Conversational crimes?"

"Conversational motherfucking crimes," Morgan says, scratching her crotch through the wedding dress.

Geoff laughs.

"The criticality of youth!"

Everyone laughs.

"It's the hyperbole of youth," the bride says. "Criticality of youth doesn't make any sense."

"Who wants a drink?!"

And the crowd dissipates, leaving me and Morgan and her Chili's tattoo. Even my mom leaves.

"We sure know how to clear a room."

"You know how to clear one. Are you going through with this?"

"My marriage? Of course. Let's find a private place."

"For what?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

She raises her arms above her head. Hair in her armpits. Shakes her dreads. Yawns.

"This facility," I say, "is equipped with eight bathrooms, four on each side, each dripping from he roof with symbolic grief in the form of dirty water simulating rain."

Morgan looks me over.

"Uh-huh. Are you sure we're not in one of your books? Like we're in your dream and I'm just an NPC."

"I'm never sure," I say.

"Are you aware that you're applying a symbolic model to the leaks in the bathroom and they're just leaks, from everyone's point of view but yours?"

"Morgan, why do you want a private place?"

"I'm gonna coke you out," she says, and takes my hand and we run in slow motion through the wedding hall weaving through people stalely conversing and her dress flies out behind her like that one scene in Titanic where Rose and Jack run through the engine room of the ship to seek refuge from everyone who says they shouldn't be together, shouldn't be here, shouldn't be.

When the camera re-clocks itself to normal speed, we're in one of the eight thematically designed grief-stricken bathrooms off the main hall.

Morgan pulls the door closed, locks it, and dances down on the door with her legs speed like she's mock-fucking a person but it's just a door.

She sways her hips and opens her lips like she's turned on by the knob, breathing on it and kissing it.

"Morgan, you're gonna get that thing pregnant."

She turns around and with her back against the door slides down onto the floor, wedding dress ballooning around her.

"There are some basic things about impregnation I'm going to have to teach you."

"Don't tease me."

"I've been teasing you since before I ever knew it," she says.

I watch her as she lifts up her dress and takes a baggie from between her garter and her leg.

It's flush with coke.

"Chop this up for me?" she says.

I kneel and take the bag.

The rain returns. And I'm dodging bullets falling on the sink while I try to cut off a couple of lines. But I can't.

"This grief is too thick," I say.

"It's not grief—it's just a leak."

"Morgan, how do eight bathrooms and an entire wedding hall have the same leak?"

"We got it on discount."

I look at her; my face is covered with tears: black water running from my eyes and collecting in the corners of my lips.

I open my mouth.

Black water pours into my mouth, fills it, and runs out over my chin.

My eyes are red-veined, pupils dark orange and I am a god.

I close my mouth and the grief stops.

The entire leak from floor to ceiling.

"If that's just a leak, then why does it obey my facial movements?"

I hold out one hand—upturned—and grief flows from the ceiling into my hand.

"Tell me that's a leak."

I close my hand and the grief stops flowing.

"Tell me that's a leak."

Morgan shrugs.

"Maybe," she says.

"Well come do a line before these lines get soaked."

She gets up.

"There's no water."

She does a line, knocking back her head and her dreads fly up then settle on her back.

"It's just you.."

She sniffs.

"..feeling sad because I'm getting married."

I look at her young face and—no shit—I start to salivate. Like I don't just wants to fuck her, I want to eat her.

"I know you do," she says.

"You know I do what?"

"You want to eat me. And not just my pussy. Like you want to cannibalize me."

"Is that a crime?" I say.

"No. Not to me," she says.

A long uncomfortable stare.

"Do you think I make a good bride?" spinning around.

"No. I don't."

"Don't be jealous. It's unbecoming."

"I don't care. I'd rather kill us both in a murder/suicide than let you marry that piece of shit."

"What makes you think he's a piece of shit?"

"He's a thick-neck corn-fag motherfucker."

"What does that even mean?"

"Has he read The Catcher in the Rye?"

"Ha! You think that's a requirement for marriage. You're less mature than me."

"I'm glad you're so mature that you give up love to marry a dumb-fuck military motherfucker."

"Is that what we have..love? All we have is lust because we're from roughly the same gene pool. Anyway if you wanted to get in my panties you had more than enough chances..and you..didn't..for whatever reason."

"Because you're my cousin."

"I love how you can placate yourself with the technicality that we never actually fucked. You're ok doing everything but but if we actually fucked then at that point—and at that point only—would you feel bad about what we did."

"I wouldn't feel bad—I would feel like we crossed the line."

"We already crossed the line! We crossed it ten years ago when I was like 12."

"You were 14."

"I was 12."


She pats her crotch.

"If you wanted this you should have taken it when you had the chance."

I step to her lift up her dress and love her little chat over the panties. She closes her eyes and holds onto my forearm while I pet her. They're thick laced panties but I put a finger between her lips and rub forward and back, up to her clit and down to her hole and soon I feel them moist and the moisture seeping through to my fingers.

"I just don't want him to fuck you poorly especially for your first time and it's not about me, I'd be happy if you were with someone who had a little bit of sensitivity..sensibility..you know? It's not about me."

Morgan opens her eyes.

"It's not about you? Bullshit. It's all about you."


Morgan pulls up her dress and pushes down her panties showing me her vulva. At the top of her vaginal hole is a zipper—YKK—which she operates, unzipping through her pee spot and that beautiful clitoris, all the way through her belly button and up to her head, leaving the skin aside and showing me inside her body, every pumping organ, every network of veins, every web of fasciae, every bone.

I see her ribs and her vertebrae.

I reach out to touch someone.

"Don't," she says, deflecting my hand. "Delicate system. I'll tell you about it."

She moves her hand over the major pumping organ.

"This is my heart. It provides circulation via a grid work of arteries and veins, incorporating oxygen from the lungs to aerate the blood and carry essential gasses and ingredients to the cells throughout my body. Its analogue in emotional life is the feeding of one's fire, as I believe we have discussed in our former lives..you feed your fire and your fire feeds you. The head, heart, and lungs form a relentless triad in which each part needs each other and each part feeds each other. Kill one, the others die too. Electricity from the brain (and actually all throughout the body) cause the heart to pump. Without the heart, the lungs' oxygen would go nowhere, and the brain and other cells—but the brain most critically—would be unable to operate due to lack of oxygen.

"In your life this amounts to the social/emotional networks built by people for psychological survival—without your fire, the people who feed you, you would be unable to feed them with your fire, and the system would collapse as a whole. In this way, we are not most essentially individuals, but a system of collected whole—we are, as corny as it sounds, one. One would not live without the other, and the other would not live without the one. In artificial intelligence research, researchers are trying to make one artificially intelligent or artificially living being but they will always fail, because intelligence and life are born of culture, so the first successful AI or ALife project will necessarily include at least two beings."

"I told you that."

"And I'm telling it back to you, in case you have forgotten."

"I haven't forgotten. Please continue."

"Do you understand the heart?"


"Do you understand the metaphor for the heart?"

"I think so."

"Good. We continue. The lungs filter oxygen from air and expel gasses useful for plants, while plants breath in the gasses we expel and breathe out oxygen which mixes with our air so here we have a similar situation. We grew up with plants. In a macro sense, we form one organism with the plants."

She holds my hands above her lungs, and I feel them breathing in and out, see the black stains from where Morgan has been smoking.

"Do you understand the metaphor for the lungs?" she says, breathing in and out and showing their literal operation to the room. "I'll tell you. Do you know what the word inspire means?"

We've been through all this when we were children but I tell her no, I don't.

"Inspire means to breathe life into. So the metaphor of the lungs is that breath is the source of life. And breath starts without..and moves within. That is the metaphor of the lungs."

"Seems simple enough," I say, surveying her insides. I can see her uterus and her cervix and her fallopian tubes and her ovaries and her vagina from the outside..from the inside..and I'm impressed by what a muscle it is.

"The liver cleanses. It is how you process your emotion. You know when someone says something hateful to you, and your most simple response is to say it verbatim to someone else? A fuck you for a fuck you. But your most processed response produces an I love you from a fuck you..you know? It's how you become a Buddhist. How you love everyone even though they hate you. Or a Christian or whatever. You don't reflect back what is shot into you. You're like a magic mirror, but instead of reflecting back LSD-like images of the hate that is pumped into you from the world, you are like a chef, and you mix together bile and gunk and you make a cake—one the Mad Hatter would be proud of..teacakes—and you throw a party for those who have shit all over you. That is the ultimate liver function."

"Doesn't the liver get tired?"

"It does get tired, but the liver rebuilds itself quickly—if you give it a break—that's part of what the liver does."

"What do kidneys do?"

"I don't know, I'm not a geologist."

Still, I look at them, Morgan's kidneys, and I wonder what they're doing—making juices needed for digestion maybe?—and I think they're perfect opalescent pearls and I get a finger on one before Morgan brushes me away from her insides.


"What if I get surgical gloves?"

"We don't have surgical gloves in this hall. I checked."

"How did you get that zipper installed?"

"A skin tailor, of course."

"Of course. Is that related to a skin inker?"

"A tattoo artist? Of course. They're first cousins. Like us."


"Don't tease me when I have my insides exposed. I don't do this for everyone."

"Do you do it for Evan?"

She looks away. Then looks back at me.

"No," she says. "Are you attracted to my insides?"

"Yes," I say.

I'm looking at her like she's a pinball machine, and I can see all the ramps and bells and lights and her vag is where the cum goes in and it flies up through her corpse and bounces around all the organs, racking up millions of points in a single shot.

"Zip me up, I'm getting cold."

I take the YKK from the bottom lip of her pretty mouth and zip her down between her breasts, pulling the skin together gently and zipping through her abdomen, putting her belly button back together, and zipping up her vulva right down to the origin of the YKK right above her vagina hole. She's all back together now.

"You know what I hate?" she says.


"How people don't talk to each other..they sit and watch movies, play video games without talking, turn the music up in a car so loud that no one could possibly hear each other talk, and ride down the street like it's them and Eddie Vedder. Like four people in a car but really it's just this person and Eddie Vedder and that person with Eddie Vedder, etcetera etcetera et-fucking-cetera."

"You got a problem with Eddie Vedder?"

"Don't be an idiot. I got a problem with a so-called family riding down the road as though none of them existed to each other."

"This your family?"

"Of course, what are we talking about..my family. My dads Laura and me on the way up here. It's my fucking wedding day. And do you think anyone said anything to each other? No. Because Geoff had the music turned up so far that no one could say anything. You can tell how angry some people are by how they listen to their music."

"How do you listen to music? How do you observe that?"

"I don't know. But Laura listens to the same music as Geoff does. And even Paul listens to the same music sometimes. But when Geoff listens to it, I can tell he's mad. Listening to music is part of how he expresses his anger. The volume at which he plays it is one thing, but it's the dynamics between people talking and the volume at which he plays it which is part of how I feel his anger. He starts at one volume—which is loud, but you can talk over it. And each time someone says something, he turns it up louder—he ratchets it up like a winch..you know, it only goes one way: tighter and tighter..or louder and louder in this case..until conversation is impossible and all that's left is hate metal so loud I want to cover my ears."

"I thought you said it was Eddie Vedder."

"Eddie Vedder was just an example. Usually it's hate metal."

"Sounds like an act of aggression."

"It's totally an act of aggression. But it's the kind you can never pin on him because all he's doing is play music. How can that be an act of aggression."

"But it is."

"It totally is. Like Rusty. When he says 'nigger pussy' around you, it's an act of aggression."

"I think that's just the way he is. He would say that to anyone."

"No he would not say that to anyone. Would he say it to GranGran?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do. Come on. He would never say that to his mom. He knows you don't like it and that's why he does it to you. It's an act of aggression. Does he ever say it when anyone else is present?"

"No, it's always just me and him."


"He's been doing stuff like that to me since I was a little kid. Get me to go on walks with him and then say all this paternalistic stuff that's bothered me for decades."

"Yeah, that's no accident, cous'."

"I agree that people don't listen to each other. You and maybe one of my sisters are the only people in this family who even know me. Like even scratched the surface of knowing me. And it's not one of my sisters but not the other: it's one sometimes and the other sometimes and together it adds up to about one other person in this family who gets me. Every other talk I've ever had with anyone we're related to was so much smoke and mirrors that a healthy person, if they heard it—like a therapist—would think we were absolutely batshit crazy."

Morgan, sitting back against the bathroom door, her front exposed and the zipper to her insides still visible, puts her hand on my knee. She says:

"Everything is so absurd that rational discussion is impossible."


Have you ever heard the march of the sugar plumb fairies? Did you know they're as heavy as a mole? One pinch of sugar plumb weighs as much as one pinch of fire powder, only the second has half as much THWACK! contained within.

Then there is a slow movement gathered by bees on trees and wisps of spider web dew. A deer makes up for the rest. Softly ballet, then crushed like a hip, broken, formidably. Who says the rest has to be like the rest? Resistivo. Double back. Kill the dragon. Make me the bow in your frill, your lace, make me the nose on your face. Come in for the thrill.

In the canyon of giants, written on walls 11,000 years later. Led by a tour guide. =

Etched forever, syntax growing = brass and woodwinds

Press return

= .leftover from axioms


Like a star

Sewn in your garment

To find later

Fingers only

Touch =

= Looking down from your gin


You will find what I left you

Thumb it beside the bar stool

Know that I planned to be in your honey moment

Wrapped up in Bobby Fischer meaning

Sacrificing a Queen

then . planning . years . ahead

. of . time .

Killer Bees WE'RE //????On A SWARM

This is the bass section LOVELY HEAD

wanted nothing but a nightroom

clasped on a cat

whose necklace


the entire


kittyn drownyng

pawing UPWARD

bubbles FLOATING

and a cascade of mice


who died small deaths

(not as small as ants)

You have heard that the tortoise wins the race.

Well I have heard that too.

And I found reason to doubt the common wisdom.

I use just as much as I need not a penny more.

People say that —profanity— is the spice of writing.


—Punctuation— is the spice of writing.

And I use it like cloves. And dill. And red pepper.

A little bit of Himalayan sea salt )pink( wouldn't hurt ya

from time to time. Do you like my )reverse parenthetical( << ??

Shift left <<

>> Shift right

Now you're a programmer )of the mind(

)you can skip everything inside these marks(

BUT YOU WON'T @##$%^&*(*&^%$##@##$%^*&^%$

And when I felt your pussy like a timpani.

Broken hips.

Elephant claw.

When you unzip me—Morgan—all you will see is your name written over every organ. Like graffiti. Like the humble Hanuman. Who refused to say the name of god. But when they cut him open the name of god was written over his heart and every possible surface.

His love was not boastful.

It did not need to claim to its entire family his love.

That is how I am with you.

I worship you on the inside.

I even knew when you were a baby that we would be together.

That you would grow up to be special.

Although I would never fuck a baby I'm just saying.

You come at me in dreams

like a freight train

all my ideas of you

they're not even you

they're just what I imagine you as

bubbling up from the deeps

attacking me with images of the triangles you wear over your three or four private areas


white triangles with spaghetti ties

you undress them for me

pretending I'm not there

that is our whole relationship

pretends it isn't happening

rubs the lotion on its skin


darling .. dear

)Read it in one sentence(

Darling dear.

Standard ))broadcast(( english.

No I mean %%english%% as an improper noun.

Highly improper.

You have entered a pumpkin of bottomless thoughts.

A gourd of bottomless darts/

Press return ≥

Control-alt-del ≥

Morgan might I program you

my dear/

Introduce you to my syntax

And my syntax is taboo and cumming


Subject yourself to my code/

Let me compile you with my fingers

and escape every expectation

—you know—

create form = break form = create form = break form

establish — destroy — establish — destroy

You are subject to my language

because you are listening

Do you know of tremolo?

Do you know of precari?

That thing which is about to fall.

But never does.

That is how I express us to us.

I an' I go to the market

only expressible

in African forms.

You've entered a ••tunnel•• of language

from which there is no escape



there is no light at the end

it ends darkly

for us

with hides against the world

everything in double

every operator overloaded

programmers only know the half


You possess one of the world's only fully programmable clits

And I use a special language

of fingertips and tongues

mouths dicks and cocks earlobes toes and belly buttons

daisy petals

and the sliver of a tongue

all accessible from my console

you tricky little bitch

I have instrumented your entire body

your entire consciousness

with dastard microbots

I can encourage you like a robot with no synergy


Can you feel me as the little mole

burrowed underneath your skin

Morgan have you ever seen those science fiction movies

where stuff burrows under the skin

That's me.

I'm inside you like The Matrix.

Kiss me at the end and bring me back to life.

Sparks falling from the ceiling like a Michael Bay.

Electricity and water do mix.

I know you've thought about it a little bit.

You don't =ever= have to leave this bathroom.

Just slip into the tub and I'll help you.

Avoid the fate of Evanit's not too late.

Y/ou can leave h/ere in a body baghonorableglorious


Well, that's what your wedding hall reminds me.

Creepy motherfuquers calling themselves your parents.

Spindly little aunts worth as much as Cruella de Vil.

Prob'ly tanning dogs in their basement.

And even my mom, avoiding conflict like a thief, some bank robber who thinks she can get away with the jewels without doing time, not knowing that doing time is the only way to get the jewels. And so a house built on stilts, waiting for the tides to change and knock it all down like a house of motherfucking cards.

And you and I may be the wind that blows, my dear friend, that blows and blows and blows the house down.

In fact I feel it in every meeting, even this sexless tryst in bathroom ##2, for when we emerge it will be like a crime has been committed even if baring your soul is a crime, which I know Paul thinks is tantamount to sexual intimacy..wouldn't want to share your soul with someone lest you risk having sex with them..that old confusion with sex and intimacy..hardly anyone knows the definition of both.

These people wouldn't know intimacy if it was a rattlesnake that bit them in the face.

Savages, every one.

And Morgan

I would like to hear

your thoughts

on intimacy and the present moment.

How they're related.

If you don't mind sharing your wisdom with an aging cousin.

Thrill me.

Thrill me with your acumen.

I am all ears, lovely one.

All ears and eyes and feeling for you, special one.

I am a one-member cult of Morgan.

Too bad, you deserve to be worshipped. Godlike.

No one sees it but me, in my sickness.

For love is a sickness.

At least my love for you is.

It goes to far. It is imprudent. It is lust.

And most of all I hold you like a god.

Fetish object. Everything about you means more than it should.

All those little triangles.

Covering every bump and hole that we're not supposed to see.

That you show me delightfully.

Remember when I held your hand over my cock

and rubbed it

using your hand

so that you had no responsibility

I was moving you

using you

to make me cum

and it turned you on

so much

that you made yourself cum right after

using my hand

and I was bold enough

to suck your tiny nipples

until your legs clenched


and you rushed hot between your legs

that, cousin, I approve

move my hand like you like it

use me as your masturbation rag doll

Let's make a diorama play.

Let's open the door

to this bathroom



scene after scene after scene

of lascivious play

Will you play with me

with the consciousnesses of your guests

most of all your fathers

Scene 1: 69ing cousins in a wedding dress and penguin tie

Scene 2: cousins standing on their heads getting themselves off

Scene 3: tickling a pussy with a peacock feather

Scene 4: lathering a cock with cum

Scene 5: grief, the falling of dirty water from the nowhere

Let's make a play this wedding party will never forget.

Something they will write about in their history books.

Let's lube you up with tongue

and cry into your pussy as it cums.

Do you think that might be possible?

My little fetishistic dear.

I want to take off all your triangles

and let the blood


between us.

White on red

as your bloody pussy


and cum mixes with period blood

so safe

no babies

this time of month.

But there's nothing like a bloody pussy

for intimacy

if you'll let me make a mess of you

stir your juices

and make a cake

a strawberry short cake

with blood and cum

in that special pie spot.


That's what I said to Morgan.


"Well, we should probably leave this bathroom," Morgan said, looking at me rather skeptically.

"Did I say too much?"

"No," Morgan says. "Just right."

"Because sometimes I don't know when a direct response is more appropriate vis-à-vis a poetic one vis-à-vis no response at all."

"When would you use no response at all?"

"Like if someone left your Foreman Grill on after they made some pork and they didn't scrape the grill or unplug it and you came downstairs after sleep to hear your Foreman Grill crackling and popping under stress of the heat, and the person who did this was sitting in the next room playing Wii U with his girlfriend, within earshot of the crackling and popping that signifies the early death of your appliance (which was a gift)..in that case you might use no response at all because it would be fruitless because the person who did this is so unaware that requesting that they treat your shit nicely will have absolutely no effect at all."

"Ok. As long as you never use no response with me."

"I won't, Morgan."

"Lets go create ourselves a dance floor, if none exists."

Morgan offers me her hand.

She lifts me up.

I turn the lock on the bathroom door and Morgan and I are cutting up the parquet like Swing Kids, dread locks, ties whipping back and forth, shoes coming off our feet, knocking stray silverware off the round tables, Morgan grabbing drinks double fisted and offloading one to me—wacky punch—and we're spilling red with every turn, channeling House of Pain and Lord of the Dance all at once, tripping up a kick switch, flicking cigarettes in centrifugal physics lighting curtains on fire inviting as fire department of aunts and uncles and hangers on to bucket brigade with wine glasses to put it out before the hall burned down.

Cats came out of the attic, sliding down handrails and landing on all fours after impossible jumps—forming a chorus line of felines joined at the shoulders doing some Michael Bublé shit the likes of which you've never seen cats do.

Then MC Hammer popped up from the grave and—


Then MC Hammer does a solo in purple Hammer Pants®

Then Icona Pop jumps simultaneously into Morgan's head and mine and we're EuroPopping or StatesPopping or whatever kind of popping slamming each other into walls breaking off chunks of marble like the lobby scene in Matrix our spines and structures withstanding thousands of pounds of pressure to destroy the columns of Morgan's wedding hall and Morgan produces a Marlboro Light which she's now old enough to smoke not like our truck days which really peeves her dads.

They're standing on the sidelines with one arm crossed over their chest and the other angled up, mouth covered by hand as if to censor what it's obvious they're saying.

Evan is off playing Wii U in an anteroom so he doesn't see the bitch's dress until the moment of the wedding. Thank god. Exactly what a groom should be doing on wedding day—for the groom is the least essential personnel on such a day. The punch bowl salesman is more important.

Morgan popped that dress up like a wheelie. Everyone saw everything. She was popping it like a flamenco dancer, ruffling it like a hawk stretching its feathers. White hawk. Screaming like a hawk screams in the woods—have you ever heard it? If not, give it a try sometime. Hawk screaming in the woods sounds like a human being tortured to death by a real-life Hannibal Lecter, face peeled off stretch by stretch, until nothing is left of the person but their bones, muscles, barely functioning organs.

But it's not Hannibal Lecter.

It's a hawk, just trying to contact its mate.

And if you scream back at them they'll come to you.

Light on top of the tree where your hammock lays.

That's when you'll hear them ruffle their feathers.

And the bird realizes you're not a bird.

Just a reasonable facsimile of.

That's how Morgan rubbed the feathers of her wedding dress.

Like a hawk who had been trying to find her mate.

But instead found some much more complex creature that she didn't understand.

And she stood over it and loved it anyway.

And terrified it by her very nature.

Can you imagine being fucked by a bird, or a dragon?

She kneels over you raising white wings.

It is essential that she be terrifying.

Else you will find no excitement in her.

Have you had sex with the terrifying?

Are you aware that all beauty is terror?

Have you figured that out?

No terrorno beauty.

Stay with your comfort wives, your comfort husbands.

Binge watch The West Wing for weeks in a row.

And never ask How are you?

Never become anything more than an audience member.

Never make your own luck.

Keep to your cheap-ass closed-mouth lip kiss.

Never kiss like you did as a teenager.

Hungry like a Snoop Lion.

Mother cat licking her young.

Taking Morgan's hand and wrapping it around my dick, using her fingers to touch me while she goes limp as if she wasn't involved, and use her hand to get me off, cumming in her palm do you think that turns her on do you think that gets her off?

It will.

It will make her wet.

She will need to get off the same way afterwards, using your hand to touch her, guided by her own, each of you conceivably irresponsible for the other's Oyou're not doing anything, you're being used, the fact that your hand is on her clit is secondary to the truth that she's getting herself off.

Using you.

Have you ever done it?

'Cause I'd recommend getting off the sidelines of the dance hall and busting a rhyme with Morgan and me.

But no one does.

You stand on the edge.

You are shocked that two cousins with an unnatural love

can flaunt it so freely.

That's because we know this is the end.

Not of the world.

Of every moment, dying.

That is what dying is.

It's the coming to of every moment

moment after moment.

That is death.

It is the same thing as life

but viewed in the other direction.

But they are one vector, double ended, seed to stump.

Most people don't even know if they leave a Foreman Grill plugged in. When they plug something in, they're not cognizant of the symmetry of unplugging. If they want to sit down, they throw your coat off the back of a chair. It's not disrespect—it's just that they don't understand the finer points of life wherein it might make people uncomfortable if you describe a murder-suicide that you would like to execute with respect to Morgan and I—and then go about discussing it in detail.

That's Tanner, my bad uncle's son. He and his dad Russel think it's cool to disrespect people and their things, to talk down to women—they don't understand they are cripple for life. Russel is so proud of his son for being an asshole. When, really, Tanner won't be able to function in what I call the adult world. And Russel doesn't function there, either. Is it any wonder that Morgan and I found an unnatural connection among this crazy family? It's almost impossible to be normal and to survive this family.

If you conform to them, you're conforming to their sickness.

The only solution is absolute eccentricity.

Icona Pop in the wedding hall.

Head slamming.

Shoe throwing.

Private imaginary headphones pumping it into our ears.

Morgan saved me from the evil of this family.

Just by being honest.

Even if it was taboo.

And if we could talk to each other, why not touch each other, too.

I went to sleep so many nights with the feeling of Morgan's labia between my fingers, never feeling like it was real—having convinced myself it didn't count—knowing all along that increasingly everyone knew and we just endured those crosswise looks from GranGran when we were all staying at her house. The later Morgan was in my room, the louder GranGran read the news at breakfast.

Oh yeah, my advice: If you want to really piss off your intellectually low-rent uncles, fall in love with their daughter. Extra points if she loves you back.

Extra points if she rubs it in their face.

Extra points if she hangs out with you in the bathroom at her own wedding.

Extra points if she unzips herself from the top of her vagina hole to the bottom lip of her mouth and gives you a tour of her organs.

Extra points if the zipper is YKK.

Extra points if she listens to you talk.

Extra points if you're both connected by an invisible cosmic link to Icona Pop.

And if you cut up the motherfucking dance floor.

Scandalizing the entire room.

Whipping your hair back and forth.

Wedding dress covered with grief.

Raindrops only you can see.

Morgan's vagina hole pulsing, lip opening flexing, tiny drips of mother's mi